


but please, don't bite

by inberin



Series: and whatever you do, don't fall in love [2]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Haikyuu!!
Genre: Crossover, M/M, fallen london AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:09:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6494902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inberin/pseuds/inberin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shigeru takes a breath. "The Canis is on my tail."</p><p>One corner of Watari's mouth twitches upwards. "Really, now?"</p><p>"Oh, shut up," Shigeru blusters.</p><p>aka: yahaba runs, kyoutani chases, and only the faintest traces of a game and the plans of a benefactor hold them together</p>
            </blockquote>





	but please, don't bite

**Author's Note:**

> this might be the first of a series of fics i may or may not write that's set in the fallen london AU cooked up by my dear [halfacookie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/halfacookie) and myself!! that one _actually has a plot_ which you can read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6486133/chapters/14845387)!! PLS SUPPORT OUR BABY
> 
> i've tried to write in a manner that doesn't really require prior knowledge of the fallen london universe, but it might still be understood best by an actual player and there might be some strange terms anyway which i apologise for,,,, either way pls enjoy!!!!! and if the premise seems interesting do check out the free-to-play game itself, [fallen london](http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com)  
> also i am (shuffles papers pushes glasses up nose) taking questions abt this au if u have any u can leave a comment or shoot me a mention on twitter im @enyesshita on there
> 
> title from [bite by troye sivan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLuWMOF6vOU)

 

There’s a pub in the streets of Spite that Shigeru likes to frequent. Much like the rest of Spite, it’s unsavoury, unwashed, unfriendly, and possibly even uninhabitable, if the couple of tables in the back that have stood untouched for months are any indication. Fortunately enough, Shigeru’s spent enough time about the place that his face alone is enough to ensure him a good, proper table near the mangy pub’s sole window, almost complete immunity from the other far less respectable characters that haunt the remaining chairs, and even a nod of acknowledgement from the residing Unshakable Winemaestro. And it is there that Shigeru will sit, sipping idly at a mug of that day’s best as he whiles the scant free time he has away.

_ Oh _ , but good sir, some might gasp, especially those in the know of the prestigious club he hails from,  _ good sir _ , surely you’d meant somewhere much more dignified, like mayhaps the Bridge Without, with its lovely light liquors and not this stinking, sagging place with the thieves and the murderers and the man in the corner who reckons you’d shell out more than a couple pennies for useless little statues? How terrible!, they might exclaim, wiping at brows with scraps of whisper-satin, because of course young Society types aiming their grubby reaches a little further than their parents’ circle of influence are much too well-bred for handkerchiefs made out of any old sorrow-spider silk. How unbefitting one of his station, one so close to those who are closest to the spires of the Bazaar!

Shigeru gulps down another mouthful of the liquid fire in his mug and tries to think of something smart he might say in response, something snippy and malicious and terribly polite. He comes up with nothing, and pours more fire down his throat.

The thing is, as Shigeru has figured from his prolonged exposure to the wiles and ways of an Overbearing Troubador of his acquaintance, he’s never going to be anywhere he is without it being another cog in the overarching plans the Troubador has thought up for them all, to bring them as close as he can to the sun without losing too much wax. And Shigeru respects Oikawa Tooru, reveres him, almost, but then the door to the pub bangs open and everyone else in the room apart from Shigeru spills something on themselves in shock and all he can feel is a familiar, deep-seated resignation.

“Where’s the Successor,” the Caustic Canis grunts, in lieu of any sort of announcement or apology. Unfortunately for Shigeru, the folk in these parts are of the impression that rudeness, especially in a cocky young upstart like the one in the doorway, is something that needs immediate adjustment, either by word or by sword.

Usually it’s the sword.

“Hey,  _ kid _ ,” calls a Talkative Youngling, tapping his neddy man’s stick onto his shoulder and leering down his nose at the Canis. “Ya made me ruin my best ratskin jacket. You’d best pay up,” he says, slamming one hand onto the tabletop, “or  _ open up _ .” The Youngling pokes a certain finger menacingly at his jaw to emphasize his point, and the pub erupts into raucous laughter.

Shigeru wonders if, with enough practice, he might one day be able to phase through walls just from sheer stealthiness alone. Although, there is always the alternative of just smashing his face into the wall so he doesn’t have to see or hear any of this unfold. He already knows how it’s going to end.

This is all very unfortunate for one former Young Successor, because after all these years he’s come to realise that one:  _ the Canis never backs down from a challenge _ , either from his own pride or from stupidity, Shigeru still can’t tell, and two: unless his opponent happens to be an Invincible Hunter,  _ he’s going to win _ . Both truths just happen to give Shigeru a pounding headache.

He continues sipping as daintily and as unobtrusively as he can from a grimy cast-iron beer mug as he watches the first of the Talkative Youngling’s little troupe almost trip over himself as he swings his stick drunkenly in the Canis’ direction. The Canis doesn’t even bother to sidestep, and simply grabs the stick as it cleaves its way towards his head. The wood under his grip practically disintegrates in his hand. The Talkative Youngling’s underling looks about ready to bolt. Everyone else in the pub looks a little less sure of themselves.

The Canis regards everyone staring at him with a look that’s a cross between excitement and disgust, and the look manifests itself in the form of a low, rumbling growl in the Canis’ throat. It’s a sound Shigeru remembers well, reflected in the constant moonish light and reverberating off skin that would have been weatherbeaten if they even got any weather down here. Ignoring the instinctive shiver down his spine, Shigeru sits a little straighter, and waits for this business to conclude itself.

Three of the Youngling’s friends hurl themselves bodily towards the Canis, and three bodies hit the floor, one after the other. Another takes a swipe at his head while he’s busy slamming the third assailant’s face into wood that probably hasn’t been mopped in years, but he grabs her by both wrists and hurls her over his back and suddenly the pub’s floor seems to be a lot more crowded than usual. This all happens within the space of about nine seconds, and the whole pub seems a lot less like a huge raving crowd ready to burn the criminal, and a lot more like good, terrified people who really just want to have their beers in peace. Really. Shigeru is almost amused.

Not fully amused, since the moment Canis realises he’s clean out of worthy opponents to toss around, his eyes begin to narrow, clearly displeased to have scared off potential playmates just like that. And that in itself would've been funny, too, until Canis scans the room one more time and zeroes in on Shigeru with those sharp, aggressive eyes, and suddenly Shigeru has forgotten how to breathe.

 

"Successor," he says, and now there’s a tinge of mockery in it. It's not any better than the way he'd said it while in the doorway, like a burden or an  _ obligation _ , but still it snaps Shigeru out of his strange mood.

"It's Swordsmaster now," says Shigeru, injecting as much chill into the words as he can. "Anything else you've missed in your extended leave, Kyoutani Kentaro?"

There it is, a twitch of the eye. Really, it's too easy. "We're leaving."

"We are?" Shigeru weighs his mug in his hand. He puts on his most childish pout, "I'm not even done with my drink."

Kyoutani Kentaro crosses the distance between them in three great strides and yanks the mug right out of Shigeru’s grasp, but since the mug is actually quite empty, the excessive force sends the mug soaring right out of his hand, and it lands with a loud metallic clank on the Talkative Youngling’s table. The Youngling himself looks absolutely thunderstruck, the pub's dim candlelight illuminating the light flush beginning to creep up his cheeks.

"Oops," Shigeru says with a shrug, talking over the swiftly darkening expression on Kyoutani's face. "Guess maybe I  _ was _ done. Did you want some?"

Kyoutani grabs his arm. The weathered leather glove looks almost elegant against the deliberate scruffiness of Shigeru’s coat. "We are leaving. Now."

"Did the Troubadour send you? Or are you someone else's lapdog now?" He keeps his voice smooth, his tone flat and emotionless, while hyperaware of the fact that everyone in the pub is watching. Great. _ Give nothing away _ , someone more jaded than they were smart had said, once.  _ Every action in this city can and will be used against you _ .

"I take orders from no one." The hand on his forearm tightens like a vice, like a warning from a predator to the struggling prey under its claws, but Shigeru is more  _ predator _ than everyone else in the pub combined, and in this city he'd be damned—quite literally, from some perspectives—if he didn't have claws of his own.

“Unhand me.” Shigeru smiles as sweetly as he can.

“Make me,” hisses Kyoutani.

Shigeru lets out a completely undignified snort. “My God,” he barely manages before he has to stuff a fist to his mouth to stifle his mirth. “I cannot believe you just said that,” he chokes out between muffled peals of laughter.

“Uh,” says the Caustic Canis, renowned for his savagery and unrelenting pursuits, but most definitely not for his eloquence.

He still hasn’t let go of Shigeru’s arm. Fine, then. “Alright, alright, I’ll go,” Shigeru says as he stands up with the smile still planted firmly on his face, though it’s a lot more genuine now. He pockets the few pieces of rostygold he’d left on the table and pulls out a pair of parabola-linen gloves from the same pocket with his unencumbered hand, gesturing imploringly at Kyoutani with the fine material, the only thing of any real monetary worth that he’d brought to this establishment—and monetary worth it certainly has. He can feel the eyes of every person trained onto the expensive cloth as it glows as bright as the candles, as it throws amber light out in strange angles. “It’s a cold evening, out. If I may?”

Kyoutani looks mighty displeased with having to let go of Shigeru at all (Shigeru immediately decides to take it as a compliment), but the only other viable solution to the problem was if they’d performed some complicated ritual that’d require teamwork or some other such farce with their remaining free hands to get the gloves on, and Kyoutani isn’t about that life. So he lets go.

“Put everything on my tab,” Shigeru calls to the Winemaestro as he leaps up onto his chair before Kyoutani can catch him. The Young Successor might never have even thought of doing something so uncouth, but for the Yobbish Swordsmaster, it’s all part of the day job. “For the fairest,” he sings, tossing the gloves as far as he can into the centre of the pub, and as all hell breaks loose—only figuratively this time—while everyone scrambles and tramples over each other for the gloves, he launches himself up onto the lone window’s ledge to survey his calculated chaos.

A group of the Talkative Youngling’s neddy men clamber all over Kyoutani as they try to climb over each other to get to where a single glove dangles haphazard on one of the pub’s long-dead gaslight fixtures. He’d probably have gotten himself out of the situation in a second, but the topmost boy’s knees and elbows are unforgiving in their assault on Kyoutani’s eyeballs. When he does finally get a reprieve from the barrage, his gaze flicks immediately to the window to meet Shigeru’s own.

The Caustic Canis lets his lips stretch into a sharp, hungry grin. The Yobbish Swordsmaster just giggles derisively in response, right before he slips out the window.

The moment Shigeru’s boots hit the cobblestones, he starts running. He doesn’t have a plan, but it’s not difficult for him to form one with just his memory of the Bazaar’s streets and the random bric-a-brac he finds in his crummy jacket’s pockets, and he almost cuts right across a hansom’s path with how hard he’s thinking. The driver glares as he goes past, and Shigeru flashes him his best Society smile. Then he ducks away from the streets and into the first alleyway he sees.

“Watari!” Shigeru shrieks as he bursts through the doors of the small Veilgarden bakery.

Watari almost drops the little bun he’s decorating in shock, but saves it with a quick, instinctive swing of the hand clutching the cream. “What do you want, Shigeru,” he replies tiredly, gingerly plucking the bun off the back of his other hand. “We’re out of puffs, Hanamaki- _ senpai _ already stopped by.”

“I’m not here to buy anything,” Shigeru says, tapping his finger impatiently on the counter, anxious to get to the point.

“Yeah, sure, okay,” says Watari. “You sure about that?”

The bakery really does smell delicious, as usual, but Shigeru really isn’t in the mood. “Look, I need your help.”

Watari’s eyebrows shoot right into where his hairline would be, if he had one.

“I’ll owe you a favour?” Shigeru pleads. “It can be anything you want?”

“You’d have a much easier time if you didn’t just do favours for people instead of actually paying or charging real currency,” nags Watari. “It’s really going to bite you in the butt one of these days.”

“Favours are the most versatile currency in the world,” Shigeru responds, the way he does every time Watari brings this up. “And I don’t exactly have any cash on me right now,  _ and _ I also trust you not to make me do weird shit like fight a spider-council or something stupid, so please  _ please _ will you help me?”

Watari stares impassively back at Shigeru’s pleading face, but finally lets out a sigh. “I’m more worried about the fact that you’d suddenly need  _ my _ help, but fine. What do you want?”

Shigeru takes a breath. "The Canis is on my tail."

One corner of Watari's mouth twitches upwards. "Really, now?"

"Oh, shut up," Shigeru blusters. "Look, just lend me the underpass, okay?"

"Did he have a message, or something?" Watari taps one finger thoughtfully on the counter as he reaches for the underpass key with the other. "You should ask him."

"Uh, no thanks." There's a stray piece of thread on Shigeru's coat, and he brushes it off so he doesn't have to meet Watari's eye. "I'd rather not talk to him, if I didn't have to."

"Funny. If I didn't know better, I'd say you seem to almost enjoy any exchange with our resident hunting dog." Watari pauses meaningfully in his search for the key. "Verbal or not." Shigeru stares dully at Watari, but he's absolutely undeterred. Curse old friends and their lack of shame in shaming you. "You know he's not going to hurt you. It's been years."

"Yes, I know." Shigeru's heard this a thousand times before, yes, yes, he gets it, it's not  _ fear _ . "Trust me, I  _ know _ ."

The key is retrieved from its drawer, and Watari swings it idly around on its shiny brass ring as he watches Shigeru. "So what's the problem?"

Shigeru leans forward to try and snatch the key out of his shorter friend's hand, but Watari dances out of the way, concerned expression still on his face. Shigeru is so tired. "Quit the nagging and just let me go, okay?"

"Hmm." Watari makes him squirm under his stare for a while longer, but finally relents with a sigh. "Fine. Since I'm getting ‘paid’ for this." He goes over to lock the bakery's door, flipping its cheery ‘OPEN’ sign to the side stating ‘CLOSED’, before beckoning him into the back room. It looks like a rather boring little place, with some hooks on the wall for coats and extra baking materials for if Watari or his other bakers run out, until the nondescript rug on the floor is yanked aside to reveal the great trapdoor in the middle of the floor. The great weight of the huge wooden door yields easily to Watari's grip, and he has it hoisted open in a heartbeat. "After you," he grins.

The drop to the ground is a little further than Shigeru's remembered, and he stumbles a bit before he regains his balance. Watari's hand immediately shoots out to the small of his back to steady him, like he's done a hundred times before. "I'm alright," Shigeru exhales.

Watari blinks up at him as he withdraws his hand, pulling out the key. "Right. You'll need this," he says, taking Shigeru's hand and pressing the key into it. "I expect it to be returned by tomorrow morning. Y'hear?"

Shigeru makes a face. Watari pulls one of his own in response, and Shigeru cant help but laugh. "I hear you," he says, thinking of harder times and dark alleyways illuminated by the bright, tireless light of Watari Shinji's smile. "I'll have it back, I promise."

"You'd better," Watari says, waggling his fingers at him in lieu of a spoken farewell, and Shigeru heads off down the candlelit, sandstone tunnel with the key warm in his hand.

Kindaichi falls right out of his chair when Shigeru unlocks the door, halfway across London. "Y-Yahaba! Um, I mean," he flounders, "mi-mister, uh, Swordsm—"

"It's fine, Kindaichi," says Shigeru, fiddling with the lock mechanism so it'll lock itself once shut. He closes the wooden door carefully, and the lock clicks satisfyingly. "It's no big deal."

"If you say so," Kindaichi responds warily, getting to his feet and pressing his bowler hat to his head with one hand as he dusts off his pants with the other. "I wasn't told anyone would be coming through here, today."

 

“Yes, it was a last-minute decision. Why is there a watch here?” Shigeru asks, then shakes his head. “Never mind. Can’t talk, I have to keep moving,” he tells Kindaichi and makes for the door leading into the outside.

“Um, Swordsmaster, you should probably wai—” begins Kindaichi, but he doesn’t get to finish, because the moment Shigeru turns the doorknob and opens the door just a fraction of the way forward, a thin, short blade flies through the opening and towards his face. He launches himself backwards in the nick of time, and the blade embeds itself deeply into the plaster wall without making a sound.

“Kunimi,” Shigeru sighs.

“Sorry.” Kunimi pokes his head through the door, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “It wasn’t Kindaichi opening the door, so I attacked.”

“Huh. You could tell that from…looking at my sleeve, through the crack?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve improved,” Shigeru says, feeling just a tad bit proud.

Kunimi blinks. “Your face, Swordsmaster.”

“My what?” Shigeru drags the back of his hand across his face, and theres a large red smudge on it.  “Well, you’ve certainly improved, but I haven’t,” he laments. The words sound light-hearted out of his mouth, but all Shigeru can think about is how the Troubadour would probably have caught the blade, hurled it back from whence it came so fast that prey would have become predator in nary a second.

“I’m sorry,” Kunimi says, a little more apologetic this time. “Do you need bandages or salve? I think there might be some behind the counter.”

“It’s just a scratch, nothing to worry about.” Shigeru pushes the door open and into a quaint little tailor’s, small enough to be overlooked by most of the public, but respectable enough to fit comfortably into the expensive shopfronts of the Bazaar’s side-streets. Watari gets significantly more business, but Kunimi and Kindaichi are just proficient enough that the few customers they do get are fairly satisfied with their work, but not so impressed that they’d recommend it to their other acquaintances. “Right, so good work for today, keep it up, I have to go now,” Shigeru says, reaching for the bright brass doorknob.

“Wait, Yaha—Swordsmaster, will you be at th—”

“No time for chit-chat, I’ve gotta run!” Shigeru says, shoving the door open, “and whatever you do, don’t tell Kyoutani I’m here!” The door swings open, and is caught in the agile hand of a Heralded Thief, the Mild Interrogator beside him doing his usual dangerous looming.

“Hello,” says the Interrogator, as pleasant as he gets. “Don’t tell Kyoutani?”

“Good day, Hanamaki, Matsukawa,” Shigeru greets, just as pleasantly. “I was just about to leave.”

“As were we. Oi,” Matsukawa says, turning to Hanamaki. “Did you bring your kifers this time.”

“Yeah, obviously!” Hanamaki replies, sounding offended even as he pats his coat down. “It was one time, Issei.”

“Yeah, and we had to go the long way round because of it, loser.”

“Call me that again?!”

“Loser, loser.”

“… Okay, I actually deserved that.” Hanamaki raises his very empty hands in defeat. “I didn’t bring the kifers.”

“Great,” drawls Matsukawa. “You’re carrying me all the way back to Veilgarden now, I don’t care.”

“Um, wait, actually,” Shigeru mutters, rummaging through his pockets and coming up with a single silver hairpin, something that reminds him vaguely of half-remembered locks of hair and thick perfume. “Will this do?”

Hanamaki scoffs. “That’s the finest ratwork on that lock there, commissioned by our dear Troubadour, no less. Designed to only be opened on one side by a key, and the other end by a master thief wielding Carrow’s most intricate kifers. Who do you think we are, Yahaba? Honestly.” He shakes his head, the picture of disappointment, then plucks the pin out of Shigeru’s hand and grins. “Perfect.”

“You want us to return it to you?” Matsukawa asks.

“No, it’s alright, you can keep it.”

“Excellent,” Matsukawa says, and nicks the pin, slipping it neatly into Hanamaki’s cropped, short hair. “There we go. Now you can’t lose it.”

“Idiot. I was going to use that,” Hanamaki says, mildly, retrieving the pin from his hair and inclining his head as Shigeru bows a little to them both in farewell. He gives a little wave. “Good luck with whatever chase you’re leading our little puppy on,” he says, a tiny crooked smile on his lips. “He needs all the exercise he can get.”

“Just don’t be late,” Matsukawa adds, heading back into the tailor’s behind Hanamaki. Shigeru wants to ask,  _ late? _ , but then Kindaichi shuts the door behind them, and all there’s left for him to do is to take off running again.

You don’t run in the Bazaar’s side-streets. No one has to, everyone who needs to get anywhere is already in a hansom, or a landau, or—for those with more concerning tastes—in carriages drawn by Clay Men. Shigeru already looks a great deal strange in his grubby, scrappy coat and blood on his face, attracting snobbish stares left and right as he sprints through. He sighs, trying to fight the flush creeping up his face, and pulls the collar of his coat up higher, to shield his face. If Spite is all alleys, then the side-streets are almost completely clear of the darkness that creeps in from all edges of London, lit with multitudes of candles and a great many gaslights. Shigeru wonders if half the gaslight power usage in London is concentrated along these shining, blinding streets.

It feels like he’s been running forever when he finally finds a properly shadowed alley, and ducks in between the two extravagant shophouses to take off his coat. It’s cold, sure, but the grubbiness of the coat is much less pronounced when slung over one arm, and in his pressed shirt and vest, he looks plenty respectable if you overlooked the rapier slung over his back, previously hidden in the folds of the coat.

And he’s breathing hard, panting, almost, but he can feel the grin on his face, the adrenaline of the  _ chase _ . God, he’s so far gone. He’s so far gone. All that’s left is one step forward, back towards the glitter of the Bazaar’s most exceptional wares, and to his victory.

“Gotcha,” says Kyoutani from behind him, voice low.

Shigeru exhales, hard, and lets his shoulders relax. He laughs, softly. “So close.”

Kyoutani steps out of the dark, looking just as much part of the shadows himself in his cloak and gloves and boots, all save for his bleached blond hair and his eyes, highlighted with flecks of the Bazaar’s gold light. “I was waiting.”

“Who told you?” Shigeru sits heavily down onto the polished cobblestone. “We both know you’re not a thinker.”

Kyoutani snorts, a short, derisive noise. It makes Shigeru laugh again, which in turn makes Kyoutani look rather fetchingly confused. It’s always that face, the one that looks like he just doesn’t understand Shigeru, and probably never will. Shigeru likes it that way. “The Troubadour told me,” Kyoutani grumbles.

“He told you to find me at the Winemaestro’s, and then he told you to wait for me here?”

“He told me to pick an alley and wait. Said you’d show up, eventually. That there weren’t very many good alleys in the side-streets.” Kyoutani looks annoyed. “Don’t like it when he’s right.”

“That’s rather unfortunate, since he’s always right.” Shigeru examines his cuticles. “Hm. You had outside help, so I don’t think we can count this as a win for you.”

“We were counting?” They should really call him something else. Confused Canis. Yes.

“We can start counting.” Shigeru shrugs, the picture of innocence. “If you like.” He stands, dusts off his pants. “What were you following me for, anyway?”

Kyoutani blinks, two amber flashes, accentuated by the glittering light. “Troubadour. Again. He wanted to make sure the Successor would show up at tonight’s party.”

Shigeru feels his lip curl. “He needs my name? He’s never needed it before.” His laugh is bitter even to his own ears.

“No,” Kyoutani says, slowly, gazing right at Shigeru. “He wants to tell Society that you are a different man. Not a Successor.” He pauses, appears to consider something. “A Swordsmaster.”

There’s a silence as Shigeru stares at Kyoutani, frozen, wide-eyed, clutching his grubby coat in his hands so tight it looks like it’ll tear. Then he laughs again, but it’s in amazement this time, in wonder. “Our bloody Troubadour,” he says, shaking his head, “and his plans within plans within plans.”

“Troublesome,” Kyoutani grumbles lowly.

“I’d hit you in the face for that disrespect,” says Shigeru, “but I’m in a good mood, and we have a party to go to.”

“I’m not going,” insists Kyoutani, sounding for all the world like a child refusing to eat its vegetables, and not a world-class tracker and assassin.

“Nope, you definitely are. Do you really think the Troubadour would look kindly upon your absence at such an important event?” Disgruntled silence. “Thought so. You should hurry off, get yourself cleaned up well. Oh, how long were you waiting?”

“Not very long. Barely got here.”

“And you didn’t have a tunnel.” Shigeru taps his nose. “Fascinating, fascinating. Alright, take me with you.”

Confused Kyoutani. “What?”

“You obviously have a shortcut, so you’d better show me the way. I’ll need all the time we can get if I’m going to look presentable.” He steps back and regards Kyoutani a little. “And if I’m going to make you look presentable. Oh, we should arrive together! Imagine all the rumours that’ll spark, a tracker and a socialite. Former socialite. Ah, I can imagine the tabloids already. Won’t that be fun?”

“Uh,” Kyoutani says, looking utterly lost. “Okay.” He fumbles around in the pockets of his coat, and picks out a pair of glowing gloves, illuminating their little patch of darkness with an eery amber light. “Your gloves.”

“You actually managed to get them.” Shigeru probably sounds surprised, but he doesn’t care. “They were the last material thing I bought with my inheritance, before I gave it all to our cause. I’d thought they’d be gone forever.”

“Would’ve been here a lot earlier if I let the Youngling take it. But he gave me the gloves before I even asked for them.” Kyoutani frowns, and is that pink tinging his cheekbones there, in the light of the gloves? He thrusts the gloves out at Shigeru with one hand. “You said. ‘For the fairest’. Here.”

“Why, Kyoutani,” Shigeru begins as Kyoutani absolutely refuses to make eye contact. “Is this a—no, you know what? Never mind. Forget that.” He reaches for Kyoutani’s other hand, and Kyoutani flinches at first, but lets him. “For the fairest, eh? Keep it,” says Shigeru, placing Kyoutani’s free hand onto the gloves, and giving it a satisfied pat. He smiles. “It matches your eyes.”

Kyoutani looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust. Shigeru decides that it’s also a pretty good look on him.

“And I’m no longer all that fair. Look at this scratch on my face! Honestly, and with a party later, no less.” Shigeru tries to put on a disappointed expression, but the smile on his face refuses to move. Ah, whatever. He gestures grandly with his sword, as smoothly as any master, but with a grace cultivated through years and years of dances, ballroom or otherwise. He smiles, and it’s real. “Lead on, Canis.” 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ah yes teh kaustic kanis, my favourite band
> 
> MORE PROMO FOR THE MAIN FALLEN LONDON AU FIC!!!!! ---> [A Most Delicious Murder](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6486133/chapters/14845387)


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